


Game Over

by mousaerato



Category: Persona 4, Persona Series
Genre: Blood, Blood Loss, Broken Bones, Bruises, Cruelty, F/M, Gore, Guns, Head Injury, Murder, Psychological Horror, Serious Injuries, Shooting, Strangulation, Torture, Verbal Abuse, in-character misogyny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 04:02:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8829736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mousaerato/pseuds/mousaerato
Summary: It's the end.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thatkindoffangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thatkindoffangirl/gifts).



> This is a request fill for a dear friend of mine. She (and I feel the need to specify that she is, indeed, female, given the nature of this fic) asked for fic of being murdered by Adachi. I hope that this satisfies your request.
> 
> To the other readers: Let me be abundantly clear that this is a SERIOUS departure from anything I have ever written or posted here. This is graphically violent, cruel, and devoid of any mutual intrigue. It's murder, not sex. If there is ANY chance this could trigger you, turn back NOW. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

                “Y’know, I really gotta hand it to you – you _did_ put up a pretty good fight up there…”

                His voice was soft, just above a whisper as it trailed off, dripping with predatory intent and arrogance. He wiped his own blood from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve, leaving a crimson smear on the right-hand cuff of the white shirt he wore underneath his black suit jacket.  His carnelian tie was loosened, hanging sloppily over the misaligned white shirt; it was clear that someone’s hands had pushed and pulled against his clothes, leaving them in disarray. There was a satisfied, smug kind of smile on his face – too big to be a _smirk,_ with a flash of teeth. His hair was disheveled, and his face was glazed with a faint layer of sweat and dirt. On his forehead was one single, faint pink line where his target had attempted to pry and claw him away.

                Adachi scoffed as he sauntered slowly and methodically to the end of the bedroom towards the crumbled body on the floor beneath him. The dull tapping of black, scuffed formal shoes cracked the silence in the room; the dark hue of shoes and pants broke the pattern of brown wooden floorboards in the body’s line of vision. The form on the floor finally made a sound: a weak, choked exhale, shivered more than truly breathed. That sound earned a low, sardonic laugh from the man as he finally closed the distance between them, passing the noose hanging from the ceiling as he followed a broken line of deep maroon smudges on the floor, kneeling down to take in the image of his prey.

                His eyes – dark, focused, _hungry_ – examined the form with a clinical, scrutinizing glare to be expected from a detective. A  real smirk played across his face, clearly proud, as he began to formulate all the details: the legs were splayed on the floor, one with a wide, clear gash showing a swath of red meat just below the knee as it stained the wheat-colored skin with thin, viscous scarlet; the gash was pink with swelling and heat; the shin was clearly not completely connected properly anymore; shoes gone, presumably somewhere else in the room; a simple black pencil skirt showed signs of tear at the seam; cracked buttons of a bone-white dress shirt, signifying the body had landed facing forward; long light brown hair as messy as he was sure his was covered the chest; a sepia bruise blooming on the right wrist and forearm;  bangs matted to a forehead dotted with sweat from exertion, and piercing blue eyes giving a thousand yard stare to the doorway. He had to admire the effort – falling from such a height and still managing to limp and crawl to the wall to prop yourself up? That took some determination.

                The detective moved his right hand to skim the woman’s face, touch soft and an utter mockery of kindness. Her skin felt cool to his touch – unsurprising, he noted, given the blood.  He moved his fingers slowly down to her neck, eventually settling his palm on her chest. The form shivered again, muscles attempting to tense in attention; she was seemingly too shocked, too full of dread to do anything else. Defiantly ignoring him even now – rotten goddamn _bitch._

                After noting that indeed, her heart seemed to be beating faster, he brought his hand to her chin, roughly pulling her back into the moment, forcing her to stare into his eyes as he cruelly drove two fingers from his other hand into the open gash on her leg. Her eyes closed reflexively as she exhaled a throaty, shrill, abrupt scream that seemed to take her entire breath.

                He twisted his fingers deeper into the wound, forcing her eyes open as he tightened his grip on her. “Look at me!” he barked.

                The detective’s dirty, dark features came into full clarity as he loomed mere inches from her face. His hand pressed firmly onto her throat as she struggled to take a full breath, gritting her teeth. Her thoughts were racing, trying to swim to the surface past the adrenaline and throbbing, searing pain in her legs and arms – where was she, and how did she get here?

                A slap to her injured leg came then, causing her to yelp, helpless to stop her tormenter and unable to escape his glare. A growled, gravelly voice came from him then, filling her with more dread: “This isn’t a dream, and you aren’t waking up.” He punctuated his statement with a pinch to the gash in her leg, making her squirm and yelp without opening her mouth.

                Quick, sharp breaths followed as Adachi _mercifully_ removed his hand from the woman’s leg, bringing some sense of temporary relief to her wounds. The detective moved his hand into his and his victim’s vision, gazing intently at the bloody digits; she knew she had no choice to look as well, too horrified and frozen to close her eyes.

                “Was it worth it?” he interrogated, sounding self-righteous. “Was it _really_ worth a broken leg?” He released her chin from his grip and traced the veins in her neck. “I’d like to think I’m a nice guy,” he purred as he lightly touched the body’s collarbones, “you could have done things the easy way, but here I am, and there _you_ are – oh,” he interrupted himself with a fake shock, “I should clean this up. _How rude of me._ ”

                She closed her eyes then as his bloodied hand reached for her hair, wiping the fluid onto the locks near the crown of her head. The touch was soft, almost _gentle_ , until she felt the sensation of her hair being roughly grabbed up in a fist, pulling her forward only to whip her head into the wall with a _thud._ He grunted with satisfaction as her head made contact with the concrete – and smiled when she looked back up at him, giving up a pathetic whimper.

                He laughed then, placing a hand on her good leg’s exposed thigh, digging his fingers in a little too deeply to be comfortable – not that any of it was. “Bet you’ve got one _hell_ of a headache, huh?” he asked playfully. The woman struggled to keep her breaths steady as the corners of her vision became blurry and dark. She worked up the courage to _glare_ at him in defiance, looking directly in the face of her tormentor: his eyes were wild, seemingly intoxicated, and his smile showed a little too much of his teeth, as if he were waiting to devour her whole.

                Her act of insubordination taunted and infuriated the detective. He pressed his forehead to hers, close enough now to kiss her, lick her, bite her, forcing her back into the reality of the moment. His voice lost its playful cadence and returned to what she realized now was his real tone, unlike what she heard when he tried to hit on her: empty, sadistic, inhuman. “Maybe it’ll teach you something you fucking _cunt_.” He withdrew from her then, only to grab her by the hair and slam her head against the wall once more, relishing a certain delight when she kept her head down for a few moments afterwards before looking up with her eyes only half-open.

                “Or maybe you’re just the quiet type,” he mused in that same disgustingly playful voice. “That would sure explain why you wouldn’t talk to me earlier, right?” The fact that he was so cavalier about the situation made her wonder if he had done this to someone before. She hoped not – she wouldn’t wish this on anyone: the bruises, the double vision, the racing heart, the shallow breaths, the sensation of warm blood flowing from a wound she somehow knew she wouldn’t live to see heal. A hot hand gripped at her wounded wrist then, pressing into the skin just hard enough to send another jolt of pain through her body, bringing a wince with an undignified hiss from her mouth. “Maybe I should be more considerate,” he murmured as he brought blunt nails into the swelling bruises, “Let me introduce myself – you might as well get to know the person you’ll be spending the rest of your life with, eh?”

 _The rest of your life._ She felt her eyes widen then as the truth in the statement became increasingly manifest. Her blurry vision panned upward the dark-haired monster that had managed to disguise himself as a man as he lingered over here as if ready to pounce. As his hands left her form once more, she looked at where his hands were heading, unable to sense any relief from the pain he had plied upon her already-ailing limbs. He scoffed then, keeping his eyes intently on hers as he removed his jacket and tossed it to the floor. He cracked his knuckles slowly, smirking at the body beneath him as he watched for any reaction. Blessedly (she thought), his hands instead worked on his tie, undoing the knot and letting the red fabric drip lazily along his neck.

                “I’m not a fan of formalities,” he whispered. “Besides, it’s not like you’re going to try anything with this,” he continued as he looked at his tie, acknowledging he was leaving her a possible weapon and means of resistance. He cackled sardonically, well aware that the hope existed only to be consumed by his despair. “ _As if you could.”_ His continued laugh was truly _chilling_ ; she felt the faint hairs on her arms stand on end.

                He shifted then, resting next to her and snaking his arm around her waist, letting his fingers brush slightly under her shirt. His free hand gripped under her chin again, turning her head to face his glare and queasy smile once more. “Me? I’m a pretty cool, nice guy. A detective, actually, but I’m sure you figured that out already.” His impatience showed as he continued: “I always wanted someone like you,” he mused melodiously, letting the fingers on her waist dip ever so slightly beneath the waistband of her skirt, tracing at her hip.  “A good old-fashioned girl: quiet…” His grip tightened. “Sweet,” he breathed, “compliant…”

                It happened so fast that she could barely register it – the hands were suddenly on her throat as he leaned over her, back directly in front of her again. Those empty eyes were filled now with a fiery, inescapable rage, and his rough voice cut through all other sensations – the blood, his weight pressing slightly on her torso, the cold. “Or so I _thought_ ,” he started.

                “But that’s not _really_ you, is it? You’re a fucking lying slut, aren’t you?” He plied on more pressure, pressing his thumbs into her neck. “I’m probably not even the first guy you’ve worked up and screwed over, am I?” He shook her then, letting her head hit the wall yet again; he was sure there was more blood than just his in her hair now. She closed her eyes, too heavy now to keep open.

                He smiled then, satisfied. At least he would be the first for this.

                “I thought you were different, but you’re all the fucking same.” He pushed hard enough that he swore he heard a crack. “Fucking _bitch,”_ he growled.  He watched with the same wild, intense eyes as she twitched, desperately trying to find air before her head fell forward.

                All was dark – dark, cold, quiet. The penultimate sensation she felt was a hand to the back of her head, bringing it forward as another hand shoved a frigid, dense metal cylinder down her throat.  Adachi looked at the body – not a person anymore, just a body – and wondered if she was conscious enough to recognize what the implement was that now filled her. A trace of spit escaped her mouth, dripping down her lips to her chin.

                “Bet this feels familiar, doesn’t it?” he asked as he shoved the gun deep into her mouth. He gave one last pull of her hair as he drank in the image: a broken body stained with blood, unnaturally pale and cold, eyes closed softly, mind clearly gone. He had to admit there was some grisly beauty in it, but then again, a good artist always knows the technical aspects of his work.

                “I guess it was never going to work out,” he said in a whisper as he steadied his hand. “You don’t really deserve a guy like me.”

                The last thing she heard was the click.

_Bang._


End file.
